Happily Merry, Merrily Happy
by Apocalyptic Lore
Summary: Arthur's plans for Christmas go up in flames upon the arrival of a certain heroic nation. Completed! USxUK
1. The Arrival

**December 20****th**

**11:46 a.m.**

Arthur Kirkland let a deep, prolonged sigh escape the barriers of his chapped winter lips, setting the lavender feather duster upon the counter top. Wiping a drip of sweat from his scarlet face, the Briton staggered over to the other end of the kitchen, opening the cupboard and pulling out a packet of tea. As he heated the water on the kettle, the man couldn't help but gaze out over the rest of his house, perceiving the fruits of his labor. The room was exceptionally clean; Arthur never allowed it to become filthy, but even this was a prodigy in the making. Indeed, if one were to wipe every last inch of the room with their bare hands, neither a speck of dust nor an inkling of one would be present, of this he was sure. At long last, after days and days of grueling preparations and exhausting turmoil, Arthur had created the perfect, fool-proof environment for his upcoming Christmas festivities.

And fool-proof was precisely what he required, no more and no less, for it was, in fact, a fool that created reason for such hard work. Arthur strolled on over to the edge of the bar, emerald eyes scanning over the letter he had received the previous month.

_Dear England,_

_It's me, again… You know how bad I am at writing letters, so I'll just cut to the chase. I've been going over my list of gifts to the others, and when I came across your name, I just couldn't think of anything to get you. Therefore, since you're such a difficult person to buy for, I'm going to visit you instead! Be sure to buy extra hamburgers and coffee, I don't think I'll be able to survive off of nothing but burned scones and tea. I have to go now; you know, hero work and such._

_`Thanks again, Arthur! See you Christmas!_

_-America_

Oh, the nerve of that man! Never did Arthur receive such a blasted headache than when he was with that infernal nation. Demanding that bitter coffee, that greasy, grimy, unpalatable concoction known to most as a 'hamburger'… his stomach gurgled in discomfort just thinking about it. A slight shiver rolled down his spine, though he remained unsure of its cause, be it the frosty weather or the thought of Alfred gulping down soda after confounded soda…

His inner ramblings were interrupted rather abruptly by the high-pitched whistling from the heated kettle. Arthur clutched the handle tightly, his hand uncontrollably shaky from all of the manual dusting, and tilted the kettle ever-so-slightly, pouring himself a steaming cup of Earl Gray. Clearing his throat, the nation made his way over to the couch and sat down, inhaling the pleasurable fumes wafting upward from the teacup. He raised the cup to his lips, parting them just enough to allow a little stream of tea into his mouth, and swallowed. Instantly, the warmth of the drink spread throughout his entire body, and he couldn't help but close his eyelids over his green eyes, enjoying the blissful peace of the moment. It wasn't often that the Englishman got the opportunity to experience such rare silence, so he grasped this chance by the horns and gladly endured it head on. Leaning back against the soft embrace of the couch, he brought the cup up to his lips again.

_Knock Knock Knock!_

"_Igggggggggyyyy!"_

A violent pounding sounded at the door, sending a jolt along the inside of the estate. Arthur spluttered, a dribble of tea running down his chin. Such an obnoxious, naïve voice, loud and unbearable… the Brit knew it could be none other than his American headache, Alfred F. Jones. Indeed, as he regrettably rose from his spot on the sofa and clambered on over to the door, he found himself face-to-face with his former colony.

Well, not really face-to-face, more like face-to-collarbone. The younger nation stood a good few inches taller. He differed from the Englishman in many ways, both inward and outward. Alfred's eyes shone crystal blue behind his thin-framed glasses, and his eyebrows were… well, slimmer. The American was a much more heroic man, therefore incredibly obsessed and flamboyant at times, and had a taste for food that was exceedingly impartial to Arthur's palette. It seemed that the only similarity between the two was their blonde hair, though Alfred's was more of a dirty blonde. Arthur gave an inner grunt, feeling slightly agitated at both the height difference and the unannounced early arrival.

"And what, dare I ask, are you doing here?" he questioned, crossing his arms.

"Oh, you know… the usual…" came the reply, leaving his host clueless. Alfred's sapphire eyes seemed pretty fixed on Arthur's lower face, and the American's left eyebrow rose slightly.

Arthur's face reddened. "What are you staring at?" Then he felt a tingling sensation upon his jaw, and brought a hand up to wipe away the tea that had splashed onto his face from his previous perplexity. He felt Alfred's gaze soften, focusing less on the droplets of the beverage and more on the conversation itself.

"All of the plane tickets were sold out," he explained, making his way past Arthur and into the house. "Today was the soonest available flight. My suitcases should arrive by the end of the day." He strolled leisurely on over to the dining table after grabbing a sugary, carbonated beverage and sat down, gulping down half of the bottle.

_How convenient…_ Arthur thought, using his rare sarcasm, shaking his head as his guest took another sip of the cola. "Be glad that I finished the preparations today. I'd hate to see how you would've reacted to the lack of grease and sugar in my diet."

Alfred ignored the somewhat snide remark, gazing around at the décor of the household. Indeed, with the single stocking above the mantle and the evergreen branches clustered here and there, it seemed a rather simple-yet-festive room, ready enough for the arrival of Christmas. He breathed in the nostalgia, reminiscing. Upon the sound of the clanging of metal, however, the American returned his attention to his host, who was busy sticking a platter of some unknown substance into the oven. Nervously, he cleared his throat and smiled brightly. "S-say, Iggy… what are you doing?"

"Making lunch." The Briton spoke no more, and Alfred's stomach began to churn incessantly, making him begin to regret the cheeseburger he had ingested previous to his arrival.

"W-W-Wait, Arthur!" Arthur continued to "cook", setting the kettle onto the hot stove and preparing to boil some coffee, leaving Alfred completely horrified for his life. Desperately, his eyes darted around the room, at last falling upon an empty space in the corner of the room. "Um… you can't cook yet!"

Arthur's eyes narrowed and he turned around to face the American, fists clenching in irritation. "And why the bloody Hell not?"

"Because you managed to forget the most important aspect of Christmas," his guest replied, grabbing his jacket and scarf. "Come on, we're getting you a Christmas tree!"

"What do you mean I don't have a-" Arthur's green eyes averted to the corner of the room, which released a rather dead aura. In all of his hectic preparations, he had really blown it- who forgets the Christmas tree at Christmas? "Umm…"

Alfred shoved Arthur's own coat and scarf into his face, grabbing his wrist and whisking him out the door. "So, where do you propose we go looking first?" he asked once they were out in the snow.

Arthur released a monotone sigh, his headache beginning to plummet upwards. "There's a decent place about ten blocks down." The Englishman felt his right hand warm exceedingly quick, and glanced down to find his wrist still enclosed in Alfred's clutches. "L-Let go of me, you aggravating git!" he shouted, his face a bright shade of crimson. He felt the grasp fall, and his hand simultaneously numbed again, giving cause for both relief and regret inside the heart of the Briton.

********

**December 20****th**

**3:58 p.m.**

The two arrived back at their own block promptly three hours later. When shopping with a man such as Arthur, one would find themselves on the brink of suicide. Alfred constantly pointed out more-than-eligible evergreen trees, yet Arthur would either ignore him or chew him out, leaving even the American in a bored slump. At last, the Brit had chosen a tree, which appeared perfectly fine at first glance, but there was a slight tilt to it, and it seemed a bit… too tall. However, once Alfred had pointed such facts out, Arthur had been too proud to choose differently, so he put his money down on the faulty evergreen.

"Hey, Arthur? Would you mind carrying the tree for a while?"

"Not a chance. Besides, you need the exercise."

Alfred's eyes only narrowed for a split second, for he was suddenly cheerful again and began to whistle a carol, namely "We Wish You a Merry Christmas", heard all around his own nation around this time of the year. Arthur groaned, his head agony increasing. After what felt like hours on end (though was actually only a few minutes), the pair arrived in Arthur's front yard, legs refusing to move forward any more as their eyes widened to the size of grapefruits.

All that remained of Arthur's glorious estate were the half-gone blackened back walls. The front wall and the left side of the house were no longer there. The inside of his house, now visible from the outside, was completely black, burnt to a crisp, and the stove was still engulfed in flames. Not a single stocking, nor any of the evergreen branches, had managed to survive.

A group of people stood crowded around his house. One of them approached Arthur, clearing his throat. "It seems as though the cause of the fire was either the stove or the oven. We should be able to repair your house, and you have insurance, but…" He coughed into his fist. "Well, it won't be completely renovated for another week or so…"

Arthur said nothing, still completely frozen from the shock, eyes wide and mouth agape. At last, after a few minutes of silence, he gulped and whispered, "Bloody… Hell…" The Briton dropped to his knees, staring up at his burning estate, flabbergasted.

Alfred approached his host, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder, and watched the house as well. His voice was monotone and had neither emotion nor melody. "…and a happy new year…"

* * *

Author's Note: Yeah, this will be continued. I hope you enjoyed it. This was my first time writing USxUK, so I hope that I did a substantial job. R&R, and expect the next chapter up either later in the day or tonight.


	2. A Slight Change of Plans

**December 21****st**

**1:03 a.m.**

Arthur Kirkland was on an airplane to the United States of America.

This alone unsettled him greatly. Had he gotten his way, he would have been sitting at home, without the company of _the annoyance_, sipping his tea and enjoying the warmth of the fireplace. However, upon something as trivial as forgetting the Christmas tree, he had left both the stove and oven on and had burned his house to the ground. Alfred had offered to have Arthur over for Christmas instead of the latter, and the Englishman would have downright refused. Unfortunately, the only other offer he had received was to visit Francis, so he chose the lesser of the two evils. Come to think of it, Alfred could have been blamed for all of this. Had he not arrived early unannounced, Arthur would not have felt compelled to cook anything. Had the American not dragged his host out the door to buy a tree, he would not have left the stove and oven on. Yes, it all went back to that heroic oaf, only this time, the hero had become the perpetrator.

Not that Alfred seemed to notice. He was sitting in the seat beside him, the aisle seat, leaned back and deep in sleep. Indeed, even in his slumber, he didn't seem at all troubled, as though there weren't a worry to him in the world. Which, Arthur concluded, there probably wasn't. Nothing ever seemed to trouble his former colony, regardless of where the threat came from. If only his life could be as simplistic and carefree. Being that they were flying over the ocean, the Englishman hadn't the opportunity to focus on the world below him, so instead averted his eyes to his sleeping acquaintance. Alfred's face seemed so at peace, his arms folded across his stomach. Arthur himself had tried to fall asleep a half hour previous, though found it difficult as the rude tourists around him complained of his snoring. Indeed, he found his nose getting slightly congested, and knew an illness of some kind was likely inevitable. He would probably awake Christmas morning with the flu, because that was the way luck seemed to be running for him the past month.

Come to think of it, his Christmases were always rather… dull. Sure, he received carolers on occasion, and a few other nations always sent him Christmas cards, but every single holiday was spent sitting at home, bored and alone. Absentmindedly, the Briton let his gaze trail out the window, staring deep into the abysmal darkness of the night. He heard a flustered grumble beside him, and turned to see Alfred's face sweating, his fists clenched and his face disturbed. Upon further observance, his former colony was still snoozing, though clearly having a fitful dream.

_He did that Christmas Eve, once…_ Arthur thought, eyes softening as he reminisced.

_A tiny Alfred, obviously a child, burst into Arthur's bedroom, tears brimming his crystal blue eyes. "England! Wake up!" he cried, shaking his guardian's arm violently._

_Arthur stirred, cracking open one eyelid to find his little colony staring at him with wide eyes. "Mhm… What's that matter, America?"_

"_I-I had a nightmare!" he whispered, gaze shifting left and right nervously. "Has… Has Father Christmas come yet?"_

"_No, I don't think so… it's only 10:30. Go back to bed, Alfred." Arthur pulled the covers back over his head._

"_Arthuuur!" Alfred stood firmly at the bedside, not moving a muscle. A tree branch tapped up against the window, causing the little child to shriek and tense up. "But… I'm afraid!"_

_After a few moments, Arthur turned back to the child and scooted over. "All right, you, get in." Alfred smiled in success and climbed under the covers beside his guardian. "Now, what happened?"_

_America's small fingers clutched the blanket tightly. "W-Well, in my dream, I was running into the living room, and I saw Father Christmas… only he was different than you said! He was evil, and he had pointy teeth and claws… he came after me, and I tripped and-!" The branch tapped the window again and a prompt squeal escaped his trembling lips._

_Arthur's eyes softened, his arm wrapping around the small boy's shoulders. "It was just a dream. Father Christmas is a much different man than that make-believe St. Nicholas you thought up. He has a big smile, friendly blue eyes, just like yours, and rosy cheeks. He has a long beard, white as the snow, and a round belly from eating all of those biscuits." They had set out a plate full of the snacks on the table in the family room the day before, though they were blackened. "He is a sweet old man, who brings gifts to all of the children of the world."_

_The child's eyes widened in awe. "Really?"_

"_Indeed. And he'll bring some for you, as well, if you get some sleep."_

_Alfred grinned from ear to ear. "Okay! I'll be brave from now on! Goodnight, England!" The little boy snuggled into the pillow, closing his eyes and trying desperately to fall asleep._

I didn't mean in_ my _bed_… Arthur thought, shaking his head slightly with a brief smile on his face. He pulled the covers over Alfred's shoulders and scooted away from the child a bit more, nestled beneath the blankets, and fell asleep as well._

"Excuse me sir, would you like something to drink?" The flight attendant interrupted his memories, awakening Alfred as well.

"I'll have a cola, thank you," the American mumbled, wiping the sleep from his tired blue eyes. Noticing the death glare that the Englishman was shooting at him, he turned back to the stewardess. "Make that two colas."

"I don't want your bloody carbonated beverage!" he snapped.

"Oh… Alright, then, one cola and one _diet_ cola."

Arthur groaned, smacking his head against the empty seat ahead of him. _Where did I go wrong in raising you and your taste buds?_ Thankfully, the hostess got the hint and gave Alfred one drink, then went on to the next group of people. The two sat in near silence, the only noise erupting from the two being the American's soda.

Finally, Alfred broke the lack of noise. "Ah, that hits the spot. I was so thirsty..."

"You _do_ know that those only dehydrate you further?" Again, the heroic git ignored him. "Don't get me wrong, I'm thirsty too, but I didn't get the chance to ask for any water. I wasn't about to get a cola and escalate my thirst."

"Want a sip?"

"Now, what did I just say?"

"But it tastes good!"

"If you can't stand my cooking, how can you even bear to look at such a revolting drink?"

"Oh, so that's why you won't try my soda." Alfred smirked. "You're jealous."

Arthur blinked a few times, clearly taken aback. "Jealous? How dare you even suggest that! Jealous of what?"

"My soda." Now, if someone accused us of being envious of a sugary beverage, we would probably stare at them for a moment, and then walk away as quickly as possible. Arthur, however, is not your typical everyday person.

He sat and defended himself head on. "Me? Jealous of your junk food? Do you even realize what you're saying?"

"Whatever, Iggy, you know it's true. I'm going to the bathroom." Placing his cola on Arthur's tray, the American rose from his seat and made his way down the aisle.

The Englishman, gazing down the aisle, assured himself that Alfred was truly behind the bathroom door. Averting his eyes back and forth, he reached for the cup, hands trembling slightly, and brought the cup up to his lips, sipping a little. The fizz from the cola sent sparks along his gums, and tickled on the way down. The taste was so overwhelmingly sweet and caffeinated… Arthur swallowed another sip begrudgingly and placed the cup back onto the tray. He folded his arms, the flavor of the beverage still lingering in his mouth. Perhaps it was all in his head, but he almost swore he could feel his teeth rotting and his gut distending.

_As I thought. Absolutely disgusting._

The restroom door swung open, Arthur sitting upright and awaiting the return of his former colony.

Alfred sat back down, removing the disgusting drink from the Brit's tray. "Thanks for watching my soda, Arthur. Hope you didn't steal a swig," he said jokingly, closing his eyes in content and bringing the cup up to his lips. Arthur shifted in his seat, not that the American took any notice. However, upon the glass touching his lips, Alfred couldn't help but notice a slight taste difference on the brim of the cup… almost like that of tea. He glanced over at the Englishman, who was staring blankly out the window, and grinned, continuing to drink his cola.

Thankfully for Arthur, his acquaintance couldn't see his reddening face.

_Bloody carbonated beverage…_

* * *

Author's Note: The 'bloody carbonated beverage' thing is actually an inside joke, which is what gave me the inspiration for this chapter. There originally wasn't going to be anything TOO awkward until later chapters, though I'm afraid even that will have to be kept at a minimum. Anyway, continue to read, and I BEG of you, review! I don't care if you chew me out! Write something! *puppy dog eyes*


	3. Resminiscing

**December 21****st**

**10:26 a.m.**

"Welcome to the humble, heroic abode of Alfred F. Jones!" American and Englishman alike burst through the door, carrying their items and other various belongings beneath the crooks of their arms. Arthur groaned, his limbs aching from all of the insanity of his past few days. Setting his things down by the doorframe, he collapsed on the loveseat, popping a few painkillers into his mouth.

"You don't have to act like I'm a stranger," he remarked, resting his head on the back of the piece of furniture. "I've been here more than once." Though, astonishing even the Briton, the estate did seem a bit… different. A stocking hung loosely from the mantle, Alfred's name written on it in gold lettering. Garland and fake evergreen branches dangled from the nooks and crannies of the room, coupling the other holiday décor. Even a tree, pine green and towering, stood in the corner, undecorated. The entire room was surprisingly well-kept, clean, and orderly. "Wait, why did you bother picking out a tree if you weren't going to decorate it? You weren't even going to be home for Christmas!"

"I was feeling really festive about a week ago. It's not a real tree, of course…" Alfred picked up his guest's bags. "I'm going to put your things in the guest bedroom. You'll be sleeping there until your house is refurbished."

"Who knows how long that'll take…" Arthur muttered, shaking his head as his former colony left the room. He could very easily spend the next few weeks, few _months_ with the burger-loving American. _I'll be lucky if I don't gain twenty pounds while I'm here…_ he thought, standing up as his stomach gave a prompt gurgle. _Might as well check out the cupboard._

Alfred's pantry was unusually barren, for the glutton he was, but at least he had had enough sense to clean out the cabinet before his departure. That's something that Arthur wouldn't have put past him. The Englishman reached up to the second-to-the-top shelf (as the highest was a bit beyond his reach- curse that oaf for being so tall!), fingering around for something edible. At last, his fingertips brushed against something, a box of some sort, and, standing on his tiptoes, he managed to grab it and pull it down to him. He felt his emerald eyes enlarge, perplexed at what he had actually succeeded to find.

Alfred F. Jones himself had a box of tea stored in the back of his pantry! Arthur was overjoyed to the point of smiling widely, and he mentally rewarded himself for his discovery. Another thought overtook him, and he whipped the box around to observe the back. Much to his dismay, the tea was a few months passed the date printed on the lid… but, really, could tea ever go bad? He placed the box on the countertop, still pondering over the difficult decision, and maneuvered over to the refrigerator. Sadly, the fridge was all but empty, the only thing in sight being a small package of American cheese atop an empty, upside-down egg carton holder. _Is American cheese and expired tea really a substantial meal?_

"Sorry, Arthur," came Alfred's voice. The Englishman whirled around to find his host standing in the family room, glancing over at his guest with a slightly raised eyebrow. "I won't be able to buy anything until tomorrow, first thing in the morning. The last thing I'm willing to do right now is get out in that before-Christmas crowd. I don't know what we'll do about food though…" As he spoke, the American felt his stomach grumble, complaining about its lack of nourishment.

Arthur remembered something suddenly, setting down the cheese and scampering away, down the hall and towards his bedroom. He returned to the kitchen a few brief moments later carrying a handful of packaged nuts. "I snuck some out before we left. Surely you can live on nuts and water until tomorrow?"

Alfred grimaced, taking a packet in his hand. "Nuts and water… an entire day…" He cringed, a shiver traveling down his spine. He poured two cups of water and handed one to the Briton.

"It's less than twenty-four hours. I think you'll live." Arthur opened a package for himself, placing the rest on the kitchen table, and resumed his position on the loveseat. Alfred took his place on the sofa perpendicular to his guest, popping a few nuts into his mouth.

"So… what do you usually do around the holidays?" Arthur questioned, sipping some water from the glass. In all honesty, he had never endured an 'American Christmas' throughout his whole life, though, admittedly, he had never had any intention to.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," came the reply, a foolish grin gracing Alfred's face. Leave it to the irritating American to say something along those lines… "Today's agenda: decorating the tree!"

Arthur gracefully choked on his water, and a fitful coughing erupted from his chest. "Come again?"

"You alright, Iggy?" Alfred asked, a genuine expression of worry on his face. Assuring himself that his former guardian wasn't going to die, he reinstated his trademark grin. "You heard me. I'll put on the star first, since you probably can't reach it. You can fix up the bottom half, and I'll decorate the top. You know, sort of like how we used to do it… only the positions will be switched."

The Englishman's heart rate began to skyrocket. Why, oh, why? Why did Alfred have to word things in such a way? He wouldn't put it past Francis, but his former colony… "Fine. Hurry up and put the topper on, then."

The American saluted, standing up and approaching the boxes sitting in the corner of the room. Arthur glanced up from his glass of water, watching Alfred from his peripherals. The taller nation dug the tree topper from beneath the bubble wrap inside the box, revealing a shimmering gold star. The light from the sun shone through the window, reflecting off of the object in such a way, Arthur shifted from glancing out of the corner of his eye to staring blatantly in awe at the beautiful tree topper. However, Alfred brought the star further up, above the American's head and onto the top of the tree, where the window's glare had yet to reach in that time of the day. Alfred turned around to face his guest. "Well, what are you waiting for? Come on and help me decorate! Just because your house burned to the ground doesn't mean that you have to be a scrooge."

Arthur inwardly groaned, those painkillers not seeming to assist his head agony in the least. He placed his package of nuts and his glass on the end table, being careful to use a coaster, and made his way sluggishly over to Alfred, grabbing a scarlet ornament from another of the cardboard boxes and proceeding to hook it onto a branch.

Before too long, the two were arranging ornaments every which way. Occasionally, they would bump into each other, exchanging threats and hollers. Other times, they would need to be on opposite sides, and would awkwardly position themselves reaching over and under the other's shoulders. Soon, however, as Arthur hung another glass ornament onto the bottom half of the fake evergreen, he noticed Alfred beside him, crouched low. The American was clutching onto a specific ornament; a rather plain, tarnishing old thing, a simplistic silver ball shape. A new sense of familiarity and nostalgia struck the Englishman hard in the chest as he further inspected the decoration.

_It was Christmas morning, and it showed. Open boxes and torn wrapping paper lay sprawled out, scattered across the room and strewn along the hard flooring. Alfred, drowning in all of his childlike innocence, sat happily upon the ground, fiddling with his new present from Father Christmas, a deck of playing cards. Nothing was more pleasing to his guardian than seeing his colony's face, bright and shining._

_Arthur approached Alfred slowly, placing a hand atop the little kid's head and ruffling his hair. "Hey, America. Do you like your gifts?"_

"_You bet!" the little boy exclaimed, smiling vividly._

"_Well, I normally wouldn't want to spoil you, but since it's Christmas… here." He held out a small box, hand-wrapped with thin paper. Alfred's face beamed as he took the box from his guardian's hands, ripping open the box and finding a strange sight; a plain silver ball with a ribbon wrapped around the outside and England's handwriting on the side._

"_It may not seem like much to you today," the older nation mumbled, sitting beside Alfred. "But it will, hopefully, mean much more to you when you're all grown up."_

_The child wasn't entirely sure about the gift he had received, but wrapped his arms around Arthur regardless, and continued to grin. "Thanks, England!"_

"Thank you." Alfred's present, more mature voice disrupted his thoughts. Arthur found himself beside the American, who was busy hanging the tarnished ball upon a tree limb near the front. "I finally know what it means now… thank you," the host muttered, smiling more sincerely as he proceeded to finish the decorating. The Englishman smiled as well, for the first time since the previous morning, and took one last skim over the old ornament.

It read,

_Dear Alfred, things may not seem to be going well at times, but God doesn't leave his children behind. And neither will I. Wishing you a happy Christmas, with love, Arthur._

So simple… And, yet, such was true for both nations. America had made a difficult decision, in seceding from his guardian all those years ago, and even more so upon making the choice to stay in contact and still maintain his freedom. For England, losing his companion and his dignity in one day had taken its toll enough, let alone the little moments (take, for instance, the past few days).

Perhaps… perhaps it wasn't the end for the two for them after all. For, even in the years of silence and quarreling between the two, never had they left each other in the dust, with the exception of July the fourth.

_Just maybe…_

"Wahh! Arthur, look out!" Alfred tripped over the string of lights, falling clumsily into the artificial evergreen. Arthur, on the opposite end, was shaken out of his thoughts by a massive tree collapsing directly on top of him, delivering multiple, prickly blows to his bare face. "You okay?" Alfred asked, bending over to lift the tree off of his lucky guest. Arthur's eyes flared, the murderous intent swelling up inside of him. The American, fearful for his life, dropped the tree back on top of the poor Briton and sped off, hoping to outrun the psychotic man.

_Or maybe not._

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry, that's all for today. ^^ Keep reviewing, and you can expect more from me tomorrow. Fail to review, and… well, you may have to drop a tree on me.

…yeah. I'm a review-holic, in case you couldn't tell. And, no, I can never seem to find the time to reply to reviews. Unless you have an honest question, then you won't get any mail from me regarding your review. Thank you, loyal fans and honest burners.


	4. Of Soup and Burglars

**December 22****nd**

**9:03 p.m.**

Author's Note: Warning- This chapter made me hungry, it may have a similar effect on you.

* * *

The inevitable had become reality. Arthur Kirkland had awoken at the crack of dawn with the chills, and found himself lying in bed with a high fever. And, naturally, his host, who lacked any sort of nutrition and immunity whatsoever, woke up refreshed and rejuvenated. How typical.

Arthur lay in bed, the thick winter quilt wrapped around his slight, shivering frame. His muscles ached something horrible, and his whole body chilled to the bone. His breathing traveled in and out of his lungs through his slightly parted lips, which were beginning to dry from the constant transfer of air. The Englishman's nostrils were stuffed full of unmentionable gunk, and his head felt heavy as a lead block. His emerald eyes had lost their bright luster, and now shone dully with drowsiness. All in all, he appeared a mess, a frazzled mess.

"Mornin', Iggy," Alfred said, keeping his voice quiet (which, for him, sounded more even-leveled with most people's) as he shut the bedroom door behind him, a tray nestled into his hands. "I brought you some soup. I managed to find some in the basement. "

"I dun' want yer gd-fersakin' sup," were the terms that Arthur murmured into his pillow, which was now drenched and drowning in his sweat. He gave a little groan, turning his head to stare blankly at the tray.

"Don't worry; it's not stagnant or anything. Well, I'll just leave it here, then." The American placed the steaming bowl upon the nightstand, allowing the fumes to flow forward to the Briton in mockery. Sure, the soup smelled something wondrous, but actually grasping the spoon and raising his arm enough to bring the utensil to his lips would just take too much effort on his part. "Alright, open up!"

"What are ya-" His muffled voice was abruptly interrupted by a long thermometer forcing itself past his dry lips and into his mouth.

Alfred held it in his left hand, rolling his eyes. "Um, you're supposed to put it under your tongue."

"I know that you-!" Arthur sat up hastily, instantaneously gasping as the room began to haze and a sudden head-rush came over him. "Ugh…" Upon lying back down begrudgingly, he snatched the battery-powered thermometer from Alfred's hand and stuck it under his tongue. After a few brief seconds, it began to beep, and the American whisked it swiftly out of his guest's mouth.

"Yep, you still have a pretty substantial fever," he muttered, clearing the screen. Setting it gently down beside the bowl of soup, he picked up the last item sitting on the tray; a large white bottle overflowing with fever-reducers. "Take two of these, every eight hours. I'm just a phone call away if you're desperate."

"Like I'd eber be dat desberate," he retorted, reaching over for the medicine and popping the cap off, placing a few on the back of his tongue and swallowing. Arthur sunk slowly back into the comfort of the sheets, turning away from his host. "Jus' go."

"Right, right," he said, opening the door and exiting the room.

_At last… honestly, I think he makes this illness ten times worse!_ The Englishman thought bitterly, leaning back against the soft embrace of the feather pillow as he desperately attempted to sit upright.

"Oh, Arthur?" Alfred's head shot back into the bedroom, peering around the corner.

"Now what?"

"Want any fast food while I'm out?"

The American, appropriately, received a blow to the head by a thrown water bottle, rubbing his head and leaving the room again. Arthur heard the distant noise of the front door opening and slamming shut, and resumed the upright position, bringing the warm bowl of soup to nestle in his lap comfortably, the spoon tucked between his right index finger and his middle finger. Gingerly, he clutched the eating utensil and dipped it slowly into the golden broth, scooping a few of the stringy noodles and a bite of chicken. He brought it up to his lips, blew on it slightly, in no mood whatsoever to burn his mouth, and dipped his head back, allowing the soup to trickle down his throat and spread heat throughout his chilled body. _Chicken noodle, huh? Probably boiled a can of it._ Admittedly, with the poor eating habits of his former colony, the Briton found it increasingly difficult to picture Alfred actually cooking anything from scratch. The very inquiry about it seemed a bit skeptical.

Slurp after graceful slurp, Arthur polished off the soup within a matter of minutes, blissfully enjoying the warming sensation it triggered within him. Accompanying the heat provided by this nourishment was a sense of drowsiness, a lingering exhaustion overtaking his mind. He placed the bowl, all but licked clean, atop the nightstand and curled beneath the covers, burying his face into the two-pillow stack supporting his head. Thankfully, Alfred_ had_ had some sort of host-like manners, and lent one of his pillows to the guest. Undeniably, Arthur had expected the pillow to reek of burger grime or revolting coffee beans or worse. However, much to his pleasant surprise, it stank of neither coffee nor soda pop, but of laundry detergent. At least the Englishman could rest assured that his former colony did his laundry and kept sanitary.

Inhaling one last time, overwhelmed in both the scent of the pillow and of the empty bowl of chicken noodle soup, he closed his eyes peacefully and rested.

********

**December 22****nd**

**2:21 p.m.**

He awoke with a jolt, being forcefully tugged from his sickness-induced nightmares and back into reality. He brought up a hand to rub the sleep from his green eyes, a deep yawn escaping his chest. Much to the Briton's amazement, he felt rather… reborn. His body no longer ached, and the only cold to grace his body was the numbing cold from the wintery landscape outside. _At least the fever seems to have broken, for now…_ he thought, sitting upright and stretching his stiffening back muscles. Judging by the eerie silence of the estate, he assumed that his host was still out shopping, buying his groceries and whatnot. His stomach began to growl threateningly. _Perhaps Alfred has some more of that soup lying around…_

Ever-so-carefully, Arthur rose from the bed, still clad in his green pajamas and a white robe, and clambered down the hallway towards the kitchen. He felt his gaze avert to the stove, which created a safe haven for a sizeable pot of soup. Strewn across the countertops were various cooking items, from chopped noodles to salt-shakers to whisks. _Wow, he really made a mess… surely he didn't concoct this from scratch?_

Shrugging his shoulders, the Englishman poured himself another bowl, sitting down in the couch and proceeding to feed himself. Regardless of where it came from, or what, he feared, it was made out of, the soup was astoundingly well-flavored and seasoned. He continued to mentally note himself about the food, relaxing his tense shoulders and releasing a content sigh.

"Ow!" Arthur flinched suddenly, staring in alarm as the fireplace let out a shriek of pain. Silence followed. Perfect, now the illness was making him hallucinate and hear things…

Again, a noise disrupted the silence of the nearly-lifeless household, the sound of pounding coming from the chimney. _Now, really, what are the chances of it being Father Christmas?_ he wondered, slightly sarcastic, and placed his bowl on the floor beside the leg of the sofa. Suspecting the worst, he snatched a butter knife from the countertop, readily preparing for the burglar's entrance. More silence ensued. Arthur lowered the knife slightly, his stance relaxing a bit.

A flash of motion shot before the ill Englishman's eyes, and before he realized just what exactly he was doing, Arthur had the criminal pinned to the ground, butter knife at their throat. "Alright, you felon, explain yourself!" He observed the hoodlum warily, coming across a few traits that struck him as familiar, and his face instantly fell.

"Arthur, what on earth are you doing?" spoke the trespasser. The Briton froze, disturbed and horrified, as he recognized the perpetrator.

"A-Alfred? What- Why…? Why the blazes would you sneak into your own house?" His face pricelessly revealed his flabbergasted soul.

"I forgot the house key, and I figured you would be sleeping, so I couldn't knock." Alfred's face, caked with soot, captured the slightest crimson tint. "Now, can you please get off of me?"

It took Arthur quite some time to fully comprehend the situation. The Englishman had "the criminal" pinned to the carpet, holding him down with a death grip. It was what many would refer to as a "compromising position", to put it formally. Clearing his throat and coughing once, twice, Arthur released his hold on Alfred and stood, turning away from the idiotic man. He bent down, grabbed his half-empty soup bowl, and rushed into the bedroom, fearfully veiling his bright red face form his former colony. He would never be able to let himself live this one down…

Back in the family room, Alfred scratched the back of his head, all but clueless about the events that had just occurred. "Wonder if I should've brought him back a cappuccino after all…" Clearly, something had been bothering his guest, and he seemed determined to hide it.

But Alfred, though heroic and curious, merely shrugged it off. _He'll tell me when he feels I need to know, I guess… Now, which should I give Iggy, the hamburger or the cheeseburger…?_ The American felt greatly flustered, his mind being rather indecisive. The cheeseburger had the bonus of American cheese, yet with the hamburger, the taste wasn't masked by the flat dairy product… Why did the decision have to be so accursedly difficult?!

And poor England felt his fever returning.

* * *

A/N: … I'm beginning to feel really strong pity towards Iggy… aww! Ah well, such misery and misfortune is necessary for the production of this fanfic. This one was slightly less Christmassy…


	5. Waging Wars

**December 23****rd**

**10:37 p.m.**

Arthur let out an echoing yawn, staggering down the hallway and into the kitchen. As he expected, he found Alfred hunched over the countertop, chopping a plump red tomato with a knife.

"Morning, Iggy!" the American said, his face lighting up brightly. "I went ahead and brewed some tea for you. It's right over here." Arthur walked towards him, sleep still lingering in his eyes as he sat on the barstool and poured himself a cup of glorious tea. The Briton's health had improved immensely, and it was entirely evident. Although his nose still retained a slightly pink hue, the fever had broken the previous night and the congestion was well on its way to clearing up. His eyes, now a much more luminous green than the day before, darted down to the cup of tea, checking the color. Assuring himself that it was at least edible, Arthur brought the china cup to his lips and sipped. _Hmm, average._ But it wasn't coffee, which he wouldn't put past his host, so he kept quiet about it and drank it regardless.

The Englishman turned his attention back to Alfred, who was now cutting into a long log of salami. Glancing around the room, he also noticed various meats and vegetables, as well as a rather lengthy loaf of bread. "What sort of blasted food are you trying to make?"

"A hero sandwich, of course!" came the reply, giving Arthur reason to face-palm.

Arthur scowled. "You're making me regret ever teaching you the meaning of the word 'hero'." Alfred said nothing, still smiling contently and chopping. The Briton watched from the bar, sipping his black tea delicately. "If you can actually cook, why don't you make your own food?" After all, assuming that it was in fact a creation of the American's, the chicken soup from yesterday morning was nothing short of delightful. He drummed his fingers on the bar, awaiting a reply.

Finally, Alfred's head shot up, blue eyes averted to the window. "It's snowing like mad out there!" Within the blink of an eye, the host had thrown all of his ingredients sloppily into the refrigerator and grabbed a coat and scarf. "Come on, Arthur!"

"It's just snow! It comes almost every winter!" Arthur protested, but sat down his teacup and slipped on his winter jacket as well. Alfred flung open the front door, allowing a gust of frozen wind into the house, chilling them both. The American shrugged and leapt out the door, slipping on the ice beneath his feet and falling flat on his face on the snow. _He really is no different than a child…_ Arthur thought, stepping over Alfred and sitting below a leafless oak tree. The bitter cold nipped menacingly at his face, and he breathed into his gloved hands to warm his cheeks.

Alfred rose from his spot on the ground, gazing up at the sky without even considering the fact that his glasses would become quilted in a blanket of snow. His guest merely shook his head, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. Indeed, the snow was falling so freely, so swiftly…

A giant clump of snow fell not-so-gracefully atop his head, dropping down from the branches above him. Alfred turned to look at him, a deep chuckle erupting from his chest. "You look ridiculous!" A lump of snow fell into the Englishman's face, chilling his body to the bone.

"You're going to regret ever saying that, you bloody oaf!" he shouted, gathering the snow from his head into his hands, packing it together firmly. He brought his arm back, prepared to strike, only to receive a blow to the face by snowball, shot from the direction of the American.

"Have to be quicker than that, old man!" Alfred said, grinning broadly. Instantly, he dodged Arthur's snowball and packed more snow together, a full, frozen artillery soon tucked in the crook of his arm. "Come and get it!"

Arthur clenched his fists, shielding himself from a frozen bullet with the tree trunk. His arm shot back, releasing a large snowball, which hit his host directly in the face, his glasses beginning to freezing over. At least the Briton had found a way to vent his anger; taking it out on his headache with a full army of frozen orbs.

The two continued on like this for what seemed like an eternity, each enjoying themselves and intoxicated by the thrill of the competitive "war". At last, after a good hour or so of battling, Alfred raised his hands over his face in defense, his glasses completely frosted. "I can't see!" he called out, frantically throwing snowballs at thin air.

Arthur let out a long, victorious cackle. "Seems as though you have lost this battle, Alfred F. Jones!"

"Oh, I may have lost the battle," the American stated, strolling leisurely up to his guest, removing his foggy glasses. He jerked suddenly, seizing Arthur with one arm, the lowest tree branch in the other. He violently shook the limb, and the snow captured Arthur yet again, practically drowning him in its freezing grasp. "…But I have not lost the war!"

Alfred brushed his blonde hair out of his eyes, taking a seat beside the Englishman. He let out a long sigh, still holding his glasses with a firm grasp. Next to him, Arthur was busy shaking off the snow, muttering curses and whatnot under his breath. The host breathed deeply over his spectacles, thawing them out and wiping them with the bottom of his shirt. However, he did not latch them back over his ears, and placed them gently on the ground beside them. Once his acquaintance had calmed slightly (to the point of holding back the swears), he nudged him lightly with his shoulder. "We haven't… we haven't done anything like that in a while."

"And now I remember why," Arthur murmured, giving a slight shiver. _Even back then, you always managed to outfox me…_

"This has actually been a pretty fun Christmas season…" Alfred's voice trailed off, removing a bottle of cola from his coat pocket.

"Wha-? You brought that out here with you?" Arthur shook his head, scowling. "You're going to let yourself go, you know. You really should start watching what you consume!"

"What's with the sudden concern? I'm a grown nation, you know. I can make my own decisions."

"That doesn't mean you should be able to!"

Alfred raised a questioning eyebrow. "You need something… I know, I'll go get you that cheeseburger from last night!"

"No, you idiot!" Arthur stood, fists tightly shut. "I don't want a bloody burger! And before you ask, I don't want a cup of coffee or a soda pop, either! All I want… I can't have all that I want. All that I ask is that you not kill yourself overeating."

"A-Arthur, calm down-"

"I'm not going to! This whole week has been a rotten mess, and your lack of logic and common sense is ruining it all. My house went up in flames, I got a Christmas tree dropped on me, I caught some sort of flu bug- I'm sick of it!" Arthur turned away, refusing to meet the younger nation's eyes.

Alfred rose from his spot, a rare frown on his face. He reached out his hand, placing it firmly on Arthur's shoulder. "W-Why don't you go let off some steam. I can get you some-"

"I thought I made it plenty clear that I didn't want a damned thing! Be it coffee or cola!" He shrugged off Alfred's shoulder, storming off, away from the Jones estate. "I'll come back for my things tonight, and then I'm going to rent a room at an inn. I'll be back where I belong by morning."

"-egg nog…?" he finished, watching as his guest trudged off, feet heavy under all of the thick snow that now blanketed the ground. Arthur Kirkland crossed his arms, trying to warm himself in the wintery weather.

_Arthur points the musket directly at his former colony's face, panting heavily and sweating. A dark shadow looms over the Englishman's soul as he stands there firmly, fully-loaded weapon ready to fire. The memories began to crash around him, memories of playing together, of the triumphs, of the failures, and of the love. Suddenly, the gun plummets to the ground, words escape the lips of the Briton, and he falls to his knees, hunches over, and begins to sob. The American watches as the older nation's shoulders rise and fall with the bawling, and says nothing, as the sight of his former guardian in such a weakened state has ultimately perplexed him, though it refuses to show in his eyes. Alfred's face saddens, and he turns and walks slowly away, not once looking back._

Just as Arthur lumbered away, eyes at the ground as he felt Alfred's sapphire gaze bearing into his back.

* * *

A/N: Oh, Arthur, you emotion fool! Come running back, embrace your poor former colony and apologize! Or not, perhaps that would seem to soap-opera-esque. Regardless, review and impatiently await the next update.


	6. This Unbreakable Thread

**December 23****rd**

**6:54 p.m.**

_I'm so hungry that I've resorted to this… I can't believe how low I have stooped…_ were among the thoughts of a certain Englishman.

Arthur Kirkland sat slumped over in a hard, wooden chair at a restaurant a few blocks down from Alfred's house. His head was beginning to ache more so than usual, and he couldn't help but regret some of the things he had said to his poor former colony. _Well, he _did _deserve it… I suppose…_ Even as he pondered the past few hours, he couldn't help but feel a rotting sensation inside his heart. Flustered and confused, the Briton let his head drop to the table, pressing his forehead firmly against the cold wood.

"Excuse me, sir? May I take your order?" A young waitress stood beside his table, pen and paper grasped tightly in her bony, pale hands.

"Oh, my apologies, give me a little more time."

"Understood."

Once she was out of sight, Arthur picked up the menu, allowing his eyes to flow freely across the page for a substantial meal, which he figured would be rather difficult to find in America, assuming everyone had similar tastes to Alfred. However, a few things caught his eye, and he had trouble tearing his gaze away.

_Italian-style __**Hero**__ Sandwich- a twelve-inch sandwich stuffed with meats and veggies galore, complete with __**American**__ cheese._

_BBQ Riblets- Now fall of the __**Jones**__!_

_Authentic Fettuccine __**Alfred**__o- Long fettuccine noodles in our creamy cheese sauce._

_Great, now I'm hallucinating!_ Indeed, the longer he stared at that dinner menu, he found it increasingly difficult to forget about his poor former host, out in the cold, watching his guest leave… _Accursed guilt!_

_Maybe I _was _too hard on him… What's been wrong with me the past week? I can't seem to get a hold of myself, and it's driving me to the point of hallucination… What can I do?_ Alas, his pride made it hard for him to bring himself to admit that he was wrong and go back, so he continued to sit there in the solemn silence, gazing out the window at the setting orange sun. The snow had ceased its consistent falling, and the clouds had nearly subsided an hour previous. All that had occurred in the past few days, the good, the bad… even the moments that shared both evil and fortune, such as the tree decorating.

_The decorating…_ In a heartbeat, the not-so-distant memory of prettying up the artificial evergreen tree came flowing back to him, from the beautiful golden star to the tree falling on him to the old, tarnished silver orb…

The ornament's message slowly came back as well, echoing on in the back of his mind. _God doesn't leave his children behind. And neither will I._ The voice continued to play back in his head, like that of a broken record, which in turn merely escalated Arthur's guilt. Alfred probably thought that he despised him, and Arthur had only just increased those emotions with his frenzied outburst.

_I have left my child behind…_ Or, whatever it was that Alfred qualified as.

"Have you decided what to order yet, sir?" The waitress had arrived yet again, tapping her heels impatiently.

"Actually, I think I have. If you'll excuse me, I'll be eating with family tonight." Leaving the waitress appalled and boiling, the Englishman rose from his spot and hurried out the door, beginning the trek back to his temporary home.

********

**December 23****rd**

**7:26 P.M.**

Arthur arrived within a half hour's time, shivering from head to toe. Though he wore a thick winter jacket, the temperature had plummeted considerably since that afternoon upon the setting of the sun. Lips chapped and teeth chattering, he approached the front door, hesitant to knock. After all, he had committed a felony, in his own mind, and was about to charge full-throttle back into the crime scene. He stood there for many moments, breath fogging up the atmosphere around him in a faded white cloud drifting from his mouth. Finally, inhaling deeply and trembling from both terror and the nippy winter air, the Briton forced his gloved hand forward and gave the wooden door a gentle knock.

Not a single sound could be heard from beyond the barrier created by the door. Arthur stamped his foot impatiently, knocking louder and ringing the doorbell. Nothing. _He'd better not be holding a grudge…_

The door never opened. Arthur released an exasperated sigh, his breath clouding about his face again, and quickly scanned the outer walls of the estate. Much to his dismay, Alfred had acquired enough sense to keep his windows shut and latched during the holiday season. He soon discovered that not a single one was ajar, not in the slightest.

"Oh, when I get in there-!" he snarled to himself, frantically groping around in the darkness of the night for an entrance of some sort. It seemed his fate had been chosen for him, in a rather ironic way.

England himself was going to have to enter the house via chimney.

Swearing inwardly, the Englishman clambered up the side of the house, using the string of outdoor holiday lights as a rope to haul himself up to the roof. _Well, that wasn't so bad… at least I weigh too little to snap the lights. I doubt Alfred could- _He felt the rooftop beneath his feet and clambered firmly atop the house, desperate to gain a foothold. Indeed, it was slippery, from the snow showers and ice storms, but the Briton managed quite well. Treading ever-so-lightly, Arthur teetered on over to the chimney, leaning forward to gaze down into its abysmal nothingness. He would have to remember to show his gratitude to the American for not starting a fire in the fireplace. "Alfred!" he called out, rubbing his arms for warmth. No reply. _Oh, that good-for-nothing twit!_

Stretching his muscles and breathing heavily, he proceeded to climb over the edge of the chimney mouth. Hey, had his host not done this the previous day? His pride beamed inside him, swelling up to the point of no return. Such a mission would surely prove to be-

Arthur released his grip on the brick brim and plunged downward almost immediately. Before he had gotten the chance to blink, he was flat on his stomach, lying on the cold floor atop a pile of blackened logs. _How typical…_ he thought, attempting to stand. The most unfortunate Briton remained ignorant of one measly fact; he was still below the fireplace. He jerked his head up suddenly, receiving a sharp blow to the back of the head from the mantle.

The Englishman winced in pain, gritting his teeth as the searing agony tore through his nerves. He gingerly touched the back of his head with his left hand, assuring himself that there was no blood. Groaning in sheer exasperation, he crawled out of the hearth and into the family room, rising to stand and trudge drearily into his bedroom. As he strolled by the kitchen table, however, the rush from the motion had sent a note floating softly to the ground. Arthur turned around, bending over to pick up the small, flimsy piece of paper. It read, blatantly in Alfred's handwriting:

_There's an icepack tucked inside the freezer door for your head. Welcome back, Artie._

_Your friendly, forgiving American,_

_Alfred F. Jones_

_P.S.: I have finally gotten around to hanging your stocking above the fireplace. Can this make up for my mistakes?_

That creep! How on earth had Alfred predicted that Arthur would hit his head against the mantle? It was nothing short of strange; perhaps dumb luck, which seemed to be America's finest attribute. Tearing his emerald eyes from the paper, he took a gander at the mantle, which held two fine-looking stockings, one beside the other. On the left hung Alfred's, with his name printed on in golden lettering. On the right side hung Arthur's, which bore a striking resemblance to the other, though it had the Briton's name stuck to it by means of sticky note.

Arthur couldn't help but smile. Utterly ready for a full-night's rest, he snatched the icepack from the freezer and made his way down the hall, pausing only once to listen to the deep slumber of his former colony.

"I may have left you behind now… or maybe I performed _that_ task those centuries ago," he muttered, approaching the American's bedside, watching as the younger nation retained his stupid smile in his sleep. "But I will never let you go entirely."

His eyes averted to the window, which was yet again beginning to frost over from a reconstituted snowfall.

"Even if I only hold on to you by a single thread, I will never be able to push you out of my life." Arthur shook his head, and he could have sworn that Alfred's slumbering face had brightened in that moment.

He smiled as well, uttering the slightest, single-sounded chuckle. "You unsalvageable fool."

* * *

A/N: Aww, so sweet, no? Review more, I demand it!

Oh, and sorry if the descriptions have been lacking in vividness. I seem to have difficulty doing that at times. Or, at least, so I've noticed in my own pieces. I found this chapter to be a bit hard to describe. To be honest, had I been given the ability to draw people and properly use a scanner, this probably would've become a doujinishi. However, my Arthur would be a short stick person with disproportionally-bushy eyebrows. Therefore, I reverted to writing. Don't get me wrong, I have a knack of drawing animals and still life, but humans… not so much. I mean, feel free to draw your own pictures and doujins and whatnot, be them fanwork or original. Don't take my fallback as a pessimistic message.

Great, now I'm ranting. I'll stop…

And for those of you who have asked, I am entirely serious when I tell you that I am fourteen. 1…4… Got it memorized? *cough* Age hasn't a thing to do with ability (or lackthereof) of writing, so please don't treat me any differently than any thirty-year-old FF authors. I do make mistakes, so feel free to correct me on anything.

Leaving on a good note, still laughing uncontrollably from episode 48,

~Apocalyptic Lore


	7. Curse These Stirring Creatures!

A/N: 0.0 My deepest apologies for that last Author's Note. Seems as though I was in a strange mood the other night. Disregard anything said last time (Well, other than the true facts about me being fourteen and not being able to draw people). Actually, it was pretty truthful all in all, but I didn't mean to sound offensive or demanding. Thankfully, no one has sent me hate mail yet, but I felt compelled to apologize regardless.

Chapter 7. Enjoy. :D Love ya, faithful readers!

Disclaimer: I own neither Hetalia nor any of the movies mentioned in this fic.

I'm also sorry for my lack of commitment. I have found myself to be too busy with Christmas, homework, and a video to complete this fic before the current time. Merry/happy Christmas!

* * *

**December 24****th**

**6:02 p.m.**

The setting sun remained veiled by a thick quilt of clouds, blanketing the winter sky with a chilly embrace. The dim glow of the setting sun shone through a crevice in the coverage, mildly shining into the glass window of the Jones' estate family room. The rays of sunlight shimmered upon the steaming surface of a cup of tea, which was securely tucked in the Englishman's hands. He sat alone on the floor in front of the sofa, sipping his china cup with a contented countenance. In front of him, the coffee table became a magnificent stand for his cheese and crackers, sitting beside the knife used to cut the dairy log. He allowed his eyes to drift in the direction of the television, curious to see what American movie his host had managed to find. _The Night Before Christmas_ began playing, the trademark line beginning the infamous story. Admittedly, Arthur had a soft spot for those sappy Christmas flicks, not that he would ever let it slip, especially with Alfred around. The last thing he needed was for another nation to think him weak.

Meanwhile, Alfred stood in the kitchen, fishing around for some hot chocolate on the top shelf of the pantry. "Want any?" he called over. Arthur simply held his tea cup higher in the air, enough to rise above the couch and reveal itself to the host. "Got it…" he reassured, rubbing the back of his head. He reached a little higher, staring at the television all the while.

_Twas the night before Christmas_

_When all through the house_

_Not a creature was stirring_

_Not even a-_

"Rat!" The shout had come from the lips of the American, who had accidentally grabbed a live, frantic rat as opposed to the box of instant hot chocolate.

Arthur didn't look back once. "That doesn't even rhyme, you disturbed git…" he murmured into his tea, sipping a bit as he watched the movie.

"No, really, there's a rat!" he hollered as the rodent squirmed out of his grasp, nipping his hand before plunging to the floor and bounding away from the towering nation, squeaking and squealing all the while. It sped past the sofa, frozen stiff in shock as it came upon the Briton. "Grab it, Arthur!"

For a brief moment, rat and Englishman exchanged blank stares, each too surprised by the other's presence and a bit unsure of how to handle the situation. At long last, Arthur snatched the knife on the coffee table and brought his hand back, shouting a victory yell.

Alfred, mildly horrified by this psychotic side of his guest, took a leap at the Briton and the rodent. "No, don't stab!" He made a landing platform out of Arthur, succeeding in the task of capturing him but failing in the mission to contain the rat.

"What the bloody Hell are you doing? Get off of me!"

"It's Christmas Eve, Iggy! You can't just go and stab a living creature…" Alfred allowed him to stand to his feet, but pried the kitchen utensil from his gloved hand. The rat scratched at its ear, its lingering stare withholding. The American slinked back over to the kitchen, reaching for a plastic container. "We can put little Milton in this…"

Arthur raised a thick eyebrow. "_Milton_?"

"What? He looks like a Milton, doesn't he? He's been around for many weeks, and I have yet to actually, well, catch him." The rat twitched its ears, as if acknowledging the unique title with irritation. Alfred advanced forward, the rodent in his sights. "Alright, you, don't… move…" He began to bend towards Milton, plastic prison held tightly in his hands.

The older nation watched from his place beside the couch, a deep tickle beginning to arouse itself within his nostrils. He gave a quick pant, lurched forward, and sneezed, startling the rodent to the point of sheer lunacy. Milton shot backward in terror, squealing as he scampered in the direction of the front door, the American pouncing at his heels. The rat evaded an attempted capture by Alfred and shimmied between the crack below the door and the floor. "Knew I should've fixed that hole…" the younger nation muttered, treading lightly after the infernal rodent. Had Arthur been told of this abstract event weeks ago, he would have likely laughed in their faces and mocked them for even suggesting such absurdity. However, as the Englishman sat their drinking his beverage, he said nothing, not giving the two pests (he wasn't entirely sure which a greater annoyance was) so much as a second glance. After this week of utter insanity and hectic goings-on, nothing could possibly surprise him further.

"Well," Alfred stated as he shut the door behind him, stepping cautiously out into the snow. "It would seem that Artie doesn't care about you. Rest assured that I will never back down until you're out of _my_ mind." Milton snickered, clambering on up the drainage pipe along the side of the estate with the American right on his tail, still holding that ridiculous plastic container. Really, what was it with living beings climbing up the rooftop? Milton had done it, Santa Claus had done it multiple times, he himself had climbed it, even Arthur had managed…

Speaking of which, the Briton still remained dead as a doorknob (or at least, as still as one…) in front of the television, absorbed in the infamous story being told on the screen.

_When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter_

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter

An echoing tremor struck the house, sudden as a missile. Arthur shot up with a jolt, gasping in surprise at the fervent shaking and the jarred ceiling fan above him. _What is that idiot doing up there, dancing?_

Away to the window I flew like a flash

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear

"… but Alfred, the fool, who just broke the chandelier," Arthur murmured, watching as a single glass fragment from the chandelier above the dining table crashed to the floor, shattering and shooting this way and that. He sighed, setting his cup gently upon the tabletop. _Suppose I should clean up, at least…_ He dusted the scattered glass shards into a bag and tossed it into the garbage can, returning to his spot in front of the fire, eagerly watching the TV.

_And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof_

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof

Meanwhile, up on the rooftop, Alfred and Milton were settling matters in a civilized, manly way. Milton came bounding forward, latching onto Alfred's hand with his pointy rodent teeth. The nation, grimacing at the pain of the wound, could not comprehend that he was supposed to calm down and capture the little rat, and began to subconsciously flail his arm around like a madman. "Get off, you little cretin!" he demanded, swearing under his breath. Milton, dizzying from motion sickness, released his hold on Alfred and went flying, propelled by the American's whiplashing arm. The rodent smacked its head aside the brick of the chimney and pelted down the opening in a heartbeat, letting out a sickening screech. Alfred merely stared down the chimney, horrified as he saw nothing but the dim glow of the fire below. "Uh… Milton?" No answer.__

As I drew in my head, and was turning around

Arthur inhaled the sweet scent of his teacup, which was now, much to his dismay, nearly empty. He tilted his head back with the cup, allowing the last bit to trickle into his mouth, soaking his lips and tongue with the blissful taste of the black tea.

And a rat promptly fell at his feet, into the fireplace. The Briton spluttered, his gaze slowly observing the burning embers, and found no trace of the rodent remaining. Admittedly, his heart sank a little, and he averted his eyes to the television only once, enough to whisper, "Down the chimney dear Milton fell… now he rests sound."

Alfred flung open the door a few minutes later, crystal blue eyes saddened, and plopped down onto the sofa, barren plastic container dangling loosely from his infirm hand, which he disinfected with some ointment for the bite marks and a rag. Poor Milton… indeed, the younger nation had intended to catch the rodent, but never had he meant to really… _kill_ him. It was as if a murder, a brutal slaughter had been stained onto his soul, and he hadn't any stain remover or bleach to wipe it clean. Alas, such a criminal offense would forever plague his wellbeing, the nature so unlike that of a hero…

And then he heard it. The ever-faintest squeak emitted from up ahead, near the fireplace, and he opened one eye to spot his guest, Arthur, holding the little rat wrapped in his scarf. "He fell _behind_ the fire, it seems…" the Briton remarked, rubbing his neck and refusing to meet his host's gaze. Oh, the embarrassment that came with stain-sticking someone's heart!

"M-Milton…" Before either nation could comprehend the situation, Alfred had Arthur in a full-out embrace, and though it resembled more of a brotherly glomp, it meant so much more to the two of them, even if neither realized it at that very moment.

"A-Alright, alright! Let go, and don't get all clingy! Be grateful that I helped you at all…" Arthur's face began to turn a bright hue of crimson. "And now I'll have to wash my scarf! You owe me deterge-"

"Thank you, Arthur." Those three words escaped the barriers of Alfred's lips, and in that moment, it was as if the war hadn't broken out at all, those centuries ago. The American smiled meekly, scooping up the rodent in the container. "You're _mine_ now, you rat!" he said menacingly, his face twisting into a devilish smirk.

Fortunately for all around him, the American merely wished to go out into the woods a few miles away and release Milton into the wilderness. He and Arthur ventured out with Milton, setting him free and watching him depart from their lives for what would _hopefully_ be an eternity. Alfred felt rather proud, and could feel the accomplishment of releasing Milton swell up inside of him like a hot air balloon. Had Milton not been their own Christmas Miracle?

As the pair walked leisurely back to the Jones' estate, Alfred gulped and spoke hesitantly. "H-Hey, Arthur?"

"What is it this time?"

"I have a confession… over Easter last year, when you brought me your homemade cookies… well…"

The Englishman halted unexpectedly, crossing his arms begrudgingly. "And what _about _my homemade biscuits?"

"I, uh…" he sighed, wincing as he finished his sentence incredibly swiftly. "I-fed-them-to-Milton… eh heh heh…" He wisely chose to leave out the minor detail about Milton rejecting them.

Arthur, much to the American's surprise, merely smiled, though his eyebrow twitched in irritation. "Yes, well, I have a little tidbit of information you may or may not want to know…"

"What is it, Iggy?"

"Milton was a female."

********

A lonely package sat outside Alfred's front door, taking up the room upon the welcome mat. It was wrapped in a simple, traditional holiday paper, with bells and holly and whatnot. An attached card, blowing slightly in the winter breeze, read as follows:

To: Monsieur Alfred Jones

From: Francis Bonnefoy

* * *

A/N: Mildly random, my apologies, but I was suffering from a severe case of writer's block today… blame it on the eggnog (I drank cup after cup… homemade, nonalcoholic, of course. ^^). Insanity ensues.

After this chapter, only the final chapter and the epilogue remain. However, if I get enough pleading and begging from you readers (through either review or mail), I may be able to pull out a sequel. I have a plot ready and everything (Not Christmas-related though, clearly). However, if no one is willing to read it, then I won't bother. It won't be updated as often. The only reason I updated this story so often was because I didn't feel comfortable writing a holiday FF in March… R&R, I beg of you!


	8. Imported Eggnog

I own nothing!

**Warnings**: Some language and inappropriate comments are present in this chapter.

* * *

**December 25****th**

**9:32 a.m.**

"Merry Christmas, Artie!" Alfred burst into the kitchen, a smile worn on his face that was nothing short of childish. He was clad in one of his everyday outfits, only escalating the rate of oddity upon noticing the Santa hat that rested snugly over his scalp. The oven was on, yet Arthur failed to grace the room with his presence. Honestly, wouldn't one have thought that after the house-burning-to-the-freakin'-ground incident that he'd be more careful? The American, fearful for both his home and his life, flung open the oven door, grabbed the oven mitts, and pulled out a large glass pan of… something. Clearly cooked by his guest, the "meal" began to emit smoke and dripped through the pan and onto the floor, where it began to disintegrate, leaving behind an imprint in the tile. _Now where'd he get to…?_ Setting down the pan onto the counter (covering the hole with a fireproof rag, of course), he rounded the corner into the hallway in search of his Englishman.

Er- _the_ Englishman. _That sure was strange… I mean, what would make me call Arthur mine? He's just my guest, the old man… the whole reason I left him in the first place was because of him treating me and my people like property…_ Whilst Alfred conflicted mentally, he couldn't help but hear a peculiar noise echoing down the hallway. A voice raised in tone, melodic and smooth, though clearly unprofessional, rang out from beyond the barricade of the guest bedroom door, and upon placing his ear on the wooden frame, the American could hear it more clearly.

_It came upon the midnight clear  
that glorious song of old  
from angels bending near the earth  
to touch their harps of gold  
"Peace on the earth, good will to men  
from heaven's all-gracious King"  
The world in solemn stillness lay  
to hear the angels sing_

_Still through the cloven skies they come  
with peaceful wings unfurled  
and still their heavenly music floats  
o'er all the weary world  
above its sad and lowly plains  
they bend on hovering wing,  
and ever o'er its Babel sounds  
the blessed angels sing_

_And ye, beneath life's crushing load  
whose forms are bending low  
who toil along the climbing way  
with painful steps and slow,  
look now! for glad and golden hours  
come swiftly on the wing.  
O rest beside the weary road  
and hear the angels sing_

_For lo! the days are hastening on  
by prophet seen of old  
when with the ever-circling years  
shall come the time foretold  
when peace shall over all the earth  
its ancient splendors fling  
and the whole world send back the song  
which now the angels sing_

_A-Arthur? Singing? _Alfred staggered back in undeniable perplexity. The absurd thought of his old guardian, caroling behind the bedroom door, struck a deep confusion within the younger nation. The great white door flung open, revealing a warmly-clothed Briton, his shivering flesh shielded by a woolen emerald sweater, which complemented his eyes quite flatteringly, and a lengthy pair of khaki pants. Arthur withdrew a slight gasp to find his host standing outside his bedroom, and the Christmas peace was shattered in a heartbeat.

"Y-You! What were you doing, eavesdropping on my caroling?" he demanded, pushing past Alfred without even bothering to await one of his stupid excuses.

"It was kind of hard not to hear it. Your voice echoes, and…" The American felt his voice quiver slightly. "I never would've thought of you as being the festive type."

"And you lived under my roof for _how_ many decades? On the slight chance of you forgetting, allow me to remind you that it is common for door-to-door carolers to serenade their neighbors and acquaintances. I missed that opportunity the moment my house went up in flames, so I felt compelled to make up for it in the privacy of my own bedroom. I didn't expect you to be much of a morning person, so I figured you would have stayed in bed longer." Arthur stalked on over to the stove, sniffing his… _creation_ with interest, assuring himself it was prepared for breakfast. "Speaking of the house-fire, well… I had a gift to give you, but it was damaged greatly in the fire… to be frank, it was nothing but an irregular mass of ashes by the time I got to it. I cooked breakfast for you instead." He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, but shook it off and continued. "I did try to fix you some coffee, but I couldn't seem to get the color right. And, well-"

"O-Oh… Thanks, Iggy…" Alfred reddened slightly as well, feeling both honored and nauseated by his guest's offering. His sapphire gaze darted to a package on the table. "Oh, yeah! I haven't opened France's gift yet!"

"A present… from that perverted pain in the arse?" the Englishman questioned, a slight hint of worry plastered onto his ever-stern face. "I would open it with caution. Much too many of my Christmases have been disturbed by his gifts of wine, cologne, mistletoe, roses…" His shoulders gave a shudder at the thought of it. He watched his host tear through the wrapping paper with a temperament nothing short of ferocity. He appeared strangely like a mad dog, ripping through the soft sewing to reach the stuffed innards of a chew toy. He noticed Alfred's face twist into that of confusion. "What did he get you?"

"A carton of instant eggnog…" Alfred muttered, observing the cardboard intently. "Luckily, it hasn't expired yet… and it says "non-alcoholic"…"

"That's incredibly peculiar. I wouldn't trust it." Arthur spooned some of his made-from-scratch goop onto a plate and set the platter in front of his host, eyeing him expectantly. "Well, are you daft? What are you waiting for? Eat up."

Alfred gulped, watching as the glop of "food" began to give way, like a French soufflé. "Uh, erm… yeah, I, uh, England? I-I-"

His stuttering was cut off abruptly by the shoving of a spoon down his throat. Arthur stood before him, still clad in a plaid apron, forcing a spoonful of slop past his lips and into his mouth. Alfred could feel the stuff burning on the way down, and his stomach began twisting in knots, rejecting the food without hesitation. His gut gurgling like mad in protest, he managed to swallow the bite unwillingly, grimacing.

"Now, eat the rest or you'll wind up with an empty stomach before dinnertime arrives. You'll be cooking that, by the way." He turned away, beginning to scrub the dirty dishes with a miniscule sponge. "I don't expect you to cook me a burger, Alfred F. Jones. Roast a turkey, or a duck or something. I'm w-" Upon whirling back around, the Briton lost sight of his host, a lifeless chair scooted out from the table where he once sat. From beyond the wall that barricaded the kitchen and the hallway bathroom, a gruesome gagging and spluttering sounded, interrupting the holy holiday crudely.

Feeling his spirits begin to sink, Arthur sighed and allowed his eyes to linger over to the platter.

Empty as the atmosphere around him.

********

**December 25****th**

**7:01 p.m.**

"Ah, I'm stuffed!" Alfred murmured, plopping down onto the sofa after the meal. The two had eaten a traditional American Christmas dinner, which honestly didn't differ too much from Thanksgiving. The pair ate their share of basted turkey, filled with a fluffy, nutty stuffing and garnished with a sweet gravy glaze. Cream corn, mashed potatoes, and roasted carrots graced their plates as well. Host and guest now sat comfortably on the couch as Alfred flicked on the television and began flipping channels. Arthur yawned, leaning back into the embrace of the luxurious furniture. As his companion focused on the TV and nothing more, he took the free time to gaze around the room, finally resting his eyes upon his host. Alfred's blonde hair glowed a dim blue in the screen's light, which also framed his jaw and neckline with a smoky silhouette. The Briton's emerald gaze dove to the floor as his acquaintance met his eyes, a slight blush rising to the Englishman's face as he scooted unnoticeably nearer to the American, intent on contemplating his true looks. Never had he noticed quite how much maturity had beheld Alfred since his childhood, and now felt a bit guilty because of his lack of interpretation. Indeed, as he gazed at the American from his peripherals, he couldn't help but note the thinned-out jaw line, the fullness of his chapped winter lips. Subconsciously, he moved forward again, inching in closer to the younger nation's face, ready to close the gap any second…

"Hey, wait! I haven't given you your present yet, Iggy!" Alfred shot up from his spot beside Arthur, completely oblivious to what almost occurred as he strolled casually off. The Briton ended up with a face full of cloth as he fell into the sofa, his attempt an utter failure. What had gotten into him lately? What could possibly make him want to… to…

Alfred returned, a wrapped packaged tucked under the crook of his arm. He handed it over to Arthur, smiling brightly. "They all seemed appropriate at the time…"

Arthur snorted, tearing into the gift wrapping and pulling back the lid to the cardboard box. Inside, he discovered many items of different variety, from pain relieving medication to black tea leaves to marshmallow-shaped earplugs. Much to the American's amazement, his guest burst into a laughing fit. _The_ Arthur Kirkland… laughing? Had hadn't heard such a noise since long before the 20th century. He couldn't help but share in the grinning.

Finally, after some time, Arthur's chuckling died down some. "Thank you, Alfred. You just made my Christmas a lot more enjoyable… ah, I could do with some of these every holiday season…"

"Glad I cheered you up, you glum old Grinch," Alfred remarked, referring to the animated special that graced the television screen. The Grinch began to mumble something about "…all the noise, noise, noise…". How appropriate. "Want some eggnog? I'm not all that fond of it myself…"

"Ah, might as well. Pour me a huge mug."

********

December 25th

8:05 p.m.

Alfred remained incredibly unsure of what occurred from that moment on. One minute, his guest was sitting beside him on the sofa, watching TV and occasionally complaining or conversing as he sipped his eggnog. The next, Arthur was _standing _on the couch, cackling maniacally, shouting something along the lines of, "Wazzup wit' all uh these sleighs 'n' jinglin' bells?" he demanded, hiccupping as his words began to slur together. However, upon both sniffing the yellowish drink and England yelling something along the lines of, "Yeah? Well, jingle_ my_ –hic- bloody bells!", Alfred came to the slightly obvious conclusion that the eggnog had in fact been spiked by Francis. _No wonder there was no seal on the nozzle… he_ thought, worrying as Arthur began dancing to absolute silence in the living room.

Frantically, the American rushed on over to his drunken companion, grabbing hold of his arm. "A-Alright, Iggy, I think you've had enough fun for one day. Let's just go-"

"Enough? The fun 'asn't –hic- even begun, Alfrid Effin' Jones!"

"You leave me absolutely no choice." Alfred effortlessly scooped up the smaller nation and flung him carelessly over his shoulder, dragging him by the shirt collar towards the guest bedroom.

"Unhand mhe, yeh bloomin' wanker!" he protested, groaning groggily as the room began to spin. With a final jerk, Alfred pushed him into the guest bedroom, shutting the door to create an obstacle between the two, and locked the door (thanking Francis inwardly for the lock given to him last year). He heard the radio blasting from behind the wall, and could hear Arthur swear out the wazoo as he turned up the dial of the radio full-blast. Slowly, the American trudged down the hall and back into the family room.

Alfred groaned as he made out the noise of Arthur throwing up from the other end of the house.

_I suppose I'll need to disinfect the bedroom in the morning. God knows what on earth he's doing in there. Merry Christmas to me. At least Arthur will enjoy himself… for now._

The phone interrupted his train of thoughts. "Hello? Jones residence."

"Excuse me, is a Mister Arthur Kirkland available right now?"

From down the hall, Alfred could faintly make out Arthur's drunken voice, singing along to _Frosty the Snowman_. "Thumpety Thump Thump, look at dat Frosteh go!"

"Er, I'm sorry, he won't be available for the rest of the night."

"Perfectly fine. Would you please inform him that his house shall be completed in three days' time?"

Three days? How much time had those working-maniacs spent on that freakin' estate? Alfred's heart sank. "O-Of course. I'll tell him right away. Thank you."

"Thank you. Good bye."

"Good bye." Alfred placed the phone back upon the countertop, sighing and placing his hand onto his sweating forehead as the dismaying truth smacked him in the jaw.

In three days time, his guest… his _companion_, would be gone.

* * *

A/N: Only the epilogue remains, which should be in sometime tomorrow. Keep reviewing, and tell me whether or not you want a sequel.


	9. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

**December 28****th**

**8:48 p.m.**

The glowing sun lingered in the soft blue sky, casting shadows aside all down below. A gentle breeze began to pick up, beholding a slightly nip in the air as an icy winter gust snuck in with the rest, carrying brown, decaying leaves within its enlightening grasp. Regardless of the post-snow chill, most would consider it a rather delightful day, being that it _was_ in fact the cool season. However, underneath the sheltering roof of the Jones estate, the matters at hand were anything but pleasing. But not a soul could blame, had they known of what occurred this fateful day.

After all, the time had come for Arthur Kirkland to return home. Just as was spoken through the telephone only days previous, his house had been fully renovated and refurbished, and had been entirely prepared in those three days. The Briton had found it incredulous that they managed to repair his estate in a matter of six days, especially over the holiday season, and found out why it was so quickly finished upon receiving the bill, nearly doubling over on the floor.

The Englishman now sat in the loveseat in the family room, bags scattering the floor. He absentmindedly began drumming on the handle of one of his suitcases, opposite hand creating a rest for his head as he glanced down at the newspaper on the coffee table. _No travel delays… seems like pretty nice weather…_ He cursed mentally, releasing a deep sigh. It wasn't that he didn't wish to return home; he _was_ England, after all, how could he not go back? It was the thought of being alone again that truly racked him. All of the time spent with Alfred had been nothing short of a living nightmare, and yet he felt compelled to admit that he would miss it dearly.

"Morning, Arthur," Alfred yawned, entering the room dressed in warm, blue cotton pajamas. He let his eyes drift towards the bags decorating the floor, a mosaic of suitcases, and swallowed. "Guess today's the day, huh?"

Arthur nodded. "My flight's at 10:30." He watched the American's face fall, if only for a second, then brighten weakly again.

"W-Well… you probably ought to get going again. You know, after-Christmas crowds and such…"

"I know. I was just waiting to… say goodbye…" he felt his voice weaken, and cleared his throat to interrupt the silence that followed. He rose, sighing a second time and clutching his various items. "Um… see you around, you git…" he muttered, the menace that once coated his voice now diminished.

"Yeah…" Alfred grinned slightly, ruffling his older nation's hair. "See you at the next World Conference, Iggy?"

Arthur gasped silently at the American's touch, grimacing. The Briton himself used to ruffle Alfred's hair like that, back when he was shorter than Arthur. Things had changed so much from those days… Indeed, he saw before him not his former child-figure, but a grown man, more than capable of taking care of himself. On the contrary, it seemed to be _Alfred_ who was the comforting hand this time. "Y-You…"

Before either of them could blink, Arthur had yanked the taller nation forward by the collar and planted a rough kiss on his lips, leaving Alfred bewildered, eyes wide as grapefruits. The Briton pulled away swiftly and rushed out the open door, shutting the barricade and panting in anxiety. What had he just done? It was as if some unknown being of evil had possessed his body and forced him to do so… The Englishman's face felt hot enough to warm his body in the cold outside. Leaning up against the wooden door, his lips gave a slight smile, gazing up at the sky before his departure.

_Merry Christmas, Alfred_

The American still stood dumbfounded in the family room, lips slightly parted and oceanic eyes still agape. His mind seemed to be having even _more_ difficulty forming anything logical, anything that made an ounce of sense. What on earth had just occurred between them? Only three words managed to process themselves in the barren nothingness his brain had become.

_H-Happy Christmas… Arthur…_

**THE END**

* * *

A/N: COMPLETION! I would like to take this chance to thank my friends, my reviewers, my fellow authors, my readers, mankind, alienkind, demonkind… Oh, wait, I didn't win a Grammy or anything… My mistake. Anyway, I think I will write a sequel, so you can all look forward to that. Unless you despised this story with a burning passion. Then you can feel free to flame me. :D

Sorry it was so short. I couldn't type any more last night, so had to make it separate from the last chapter.


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